


King and Lionheart

by xxrisque



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, M/M, Piningjolras, Polish!Feuilly, all couples are eventual basically, sort of - they're Sixth Formers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2013-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-16 19:42:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/865857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxrisque/pseuds/xxrisque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the winter of Grantaire's last year of sixth form, his work gets put forward for the school art show. Which leads to Enjolras, the frequent subject of his daydreams, enquiring about commissions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so this is my first Les Mis fic, agh. I'm super nervous about it so any con/crit would be lovely u_u  
> (this is also me trailing after the piningjolras bandwagon)
> 
> I'm writing this for the [Big Bang](http://www.mibba.com/Forums/Topic/182181/Mibba-Big-Bang/) over on mibba, if anyone happens to be a member there.
> 
> beta'd by the lovely [chekov.](http://www.mibba.com/Member/159958/)

It’s just past seven thirty on a Wednesday night, and Grantaire doesn’t think he’s been this nervous in years. He’s standing behind the curtain on the school stage, in a dark grey suit that is possibly the least comfortable outfit in existence, a green tie loose around his neck and wild, inky dark curls bouncing around his face. He has a glass of punch gripped tight in his hand –Feuilly had forced it upon him about five minutes ago, claiming he looked nervous. Grantaire had gratefully accepted, but was disgruntled to discover it hadn’t been spiked.

He feels eyes on him and turns to see none other than Feuilly himself studying him. The nineteen year old in question is sipping at his own glass of punch and fiddling with the unfastened bow tie around his neck, scrutinising the white paisley print. He nods at Grantaire when he notices the younger boy looking at him. He’s about to start up a conversation when Éponine bounces up to him, striped dress swaying around her knees.

“There’s so many people out there. Cosette just made me have a look.” She laughs excitedly, knocking her shoulder against Grantaire’s. “Go see.”

Grantaire grumbles, but moves towards the edge of the curtains anyway, gingerly pulling them back and subtly poking his head around. Éponine wasn’t kidding; the gallery hall is fuller than he’s ever seen it, packed with students and parents alike. What staggers him most, however, is the distinctive mop of golden blonde curls that currently appears to be studying his impressionistic painting of nineteenth century Paris. He sucks in a shocked breath and recoils quickly. Jehan and Cosette have since appeared, and the girl is braiding daisies into his auburn plait.

“Which of you gits invited Enjolras?”

“Enjolras is here?” Jehan asks airily as Cosette puts the finishing touches on his braid. “I didn’t expect him to come.”

“You asked him to?” Grantaire retorts, turning to him wide eyed. Feuilly snorts a laugh into his drink.

“No, I just invited Courfeyrac.” Jehan replies honestly, innocently. “I didn’t mention it to Enjolras. He doesn’t normally like this sort of thing.”

“I brought it up to Bahorel in one of the alliance meets last week to remind him that he was supposed to be coming.” Feuilly muses, tucking his free hand into the pocket of his dress trousers. “Maybe he overheard. I’d offer you a cigarette to calm your nerves, but I don’t think you’ve got time.”

“I don’t care.” Grantaire moves over to him and is about to take the packet from him when, right on cue, their art teacher, a kindly older gentleman known as Mr. Mabeuf appears.

“Ah, good, you’re all here. It’s about time that we start your introductions, don’t you think?” He smiles at the five of them, and they barely have time to set down their drinks and make themselves look a little more presentable before the thick, velvet curtains are falling open and baring them to their audience.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Mabeuf begins, stepping forward on the stage, “allow me to introduce to you your artists in exhibition this evening. From the Upper Sixth, we have the talented and practical Feuilly, who continues to astound with his studies of Polish art in the twentieth century.”

Feuilly’s cheeks flush a soft pink and he bows graciously at the smattering of applause, running his fingers through his short, reddish-brown curls self-consciously. Grantaire notices and knocks their elbows together, nodding in the direction of the crowd. Feuilly looks up, following Grantaire’s eyes and there’s Bahorel, grinning wide and whooping, hair flopping flat into his eyes and bright blue rugby jersey stained with mud. Feuilly smiles then, raising his hand in a slight wave to his best friend.

“Also representing the Upper Sixth, with his penchant for beautifully executed impressionism and stunning portraiture, is the charmingly humble Grantaire.”

Grantaire takes an overdramatic bow and smiles lopsidedly as the gathered audience clap. Mabeuf goes on to introduce their Lower Sixth comrades, but Grantaire isn’t listening, not really. He’s too busy scanning the room in search of Enjolras to pay attention, and when he finally locates his shaggy blonde head, he finds that he has, unsurprisingly, wedged himself between Combeferre and Courfeyrac. The latter is gossiping animatedly with Marius, who appears to be ignoring him in favour of studying one of Cosette’s photographs of herself.

Combeferre, predictably, has several pamphlets in his hand and doesn’t appear to be paying attention, and Enjolras is looking past him, eyes apparently fixed on his painting of the Rouen Cathedral. It’s not one of the pieces Grantaire is proudest of, if he’s being honest, considering the photograph he’d referenced had been an old one his mother had taken about twelve years ago when they still lived there, and it was only after he’d finished it that he realized it was incredibly like a relatively well-known Monet painting.

Eventually, they are ushered off stage and instructed to mingle and answer any questions people might have. Grantaire just manages to dodge Bahorel’s rugby tackle of a hug as the eighteen year old squashes Feuilly against his chest.

“Aw, look at you with all your... Talent!” He coos, fumbling to attempt to pinch Feuilly’s cheek. The older boy ducks out of the way just in time and Bahorel ends up with a handful of neck and shirt collar. 

“Christ, Bahorel, let me go, you clumsy shit.” Feuilly splutters, and Grantaire laughs weakly and skirts around the two of them. People have begun to disperse now, perusing through the art and mumbling between themselves. Cosette is talking to Marius, who is looking hopelessly flustered as she grabs him by the wrist and guides him over to show him her photographs of the local park. Courfeyrac has tentatively approached Jehan, and Grantaire suddenly realizes why he even showed up in the first place. He’s blushing, and Grantaire wouldn’t have noticed if he didn’t know Courfeyrac so well, and he’s wearing the shirt he is convinced makes him look the cutest (it’s a mint green and monochrome check print that contrasts his eyes _perfectly_ , or so he says) and he looks nervous. 

And if there’s one thing Courfeyrac _isn’t_ , it’s nervous.

Grantaire rolls his eyes affectionately at the two of them, not that they’re looking –no, they’re too busy looking at each other for that- and watches as Jehan gingerly takes hold of his hand and guides him towards the sculptures.

He’s not paying attention when he walks, not really, and so he supposes it’s not his fault that he’s managed to gravitate towards where Enjolras is standing, inspecting one of his smaller pieces. This time it’s not a canvas –just a little inked drawing of the Millau Viaduct on cream construction cardboard he’d done when he was bored between projects.

“I take it you like them, then?”

“What?” Enjolras wheels around as if accused, his curls falling uselessly into his eyes. “You?”

“Me.” Grantaire replies with a wry smile, almost a smirk. “What did you expect?”

“I don’t know.” Enjolras replies, for once sounding a little dumbfounded. “But not... Not this.”

He gesticulates at the wall of paintings in front of the two of them. Grantaire raises an eyebrow at him.

“What, did you not expect me to possess a modicum of actual thought and skill beyond my cynicism and frequent destruction of your debates?”

Enjolras glowers at him through his curls but doesn’t move, and for a moment Grantaire almost thinks he’s won. That is, until Enjolras rounds on him accusingly.

“You know, I’m not sure why you attend our LGBTQ+ group, considering all you seem to do is frequently remind me of my cisgender, white, middle-class male privilege.”

“Someone has to.” Grantaire smirks again. Enjolras narrows his eyes. “Well, you’re hardly the poster child for discrimination, let’s be honest. You’re _French_.”

“So are you.” Enjolras barks. “And you’re the perfect example of LGBTQ youth, are you?”

“Did I say that?” Grantaire retorts.

“The implication was there.” Enjolras snaps, and Grantaire raises his eyebrows at him.

“Of course it was.” Grantaire rolls his eyes almost affectionately and turns away from him with a weak laugh. “I need a drink. I’m going to find Feuilly.”

It was stupid, he thinks as he turns away from him and moves towards the fire exit -he figures Bahorel and Feuilly are probably lurking there- to hope that Enjolras had come because he had a genuine interest in his art. No, this is Enjolras, who is passionate to a fault and cares more for the rights of the poor in South America than he does about remembering to feed himself. Of course the mere notion of an art gallery would be enough to make him roll his eyes and sneer.

Grantaire scoffs to himself and skirts past Combeferre, who is pushing his thick framed glasses up his nose as he talks to Éponine with the lightest of pink flushes dusting at the top of his cheeks. His multitude of pamphlets rest forgotten in the back pocket of his artfully distressed jeans as he listens to her animated speech.

Enjolras stares blankly after Grantaire as he goes and presses his lips into a thin line, as if stopping himself from saying something. Éponine looks between him and Combeferre a few times before she sighs and huffs, following after Grantaire and leaving the two of them alone.

Grantaire steps out of the fire exit and into the cold November air to find Feuilly and Bahorel leaning against the wall of the technology building. They’re talking quietly to each other, passing a can of cheap beer between themselves and each attempting to exhale smoke rings into the other’s face.

“You look like shit, R.” Bahorel announces brashly when he sees him standing in the doorway. He holds out the can to him and Grantaire takes it graciously, taking a few long gulps before handing it to Feuilly. Feuilly looks at him for a moment, studying his face, before he hands the can back to Bahorel and digs his cigarettes out of his pocket.

“Here.” He says, unceremoniously throwing the small blue box at Grantaire, and watching as the seventeen year old fumbles with the packet until he eventually manages to produce a cigarette and settle it between his lips. Feuilly leans over with his lighter in hand, flicking the spark wheel a few times and producing a thin, orange flame. He lights the cigarette in Grantaire’s mouth and watches as the younger boy takes a long drag, before he plucks the cigarette from his mouth between two thin fingers and exhales a plume of soft, grey smoke.

“Do I want to know what happened?” Feuilly asks, leaning back against the wall and tucking his lighter back into his shirt pocket. “Or should I just assume that it has something to do with Enjolras?"


	2. Chapter 2

“What did you say to him?” Combeferre asks almost incredulously once he’s certain Éponine is well out of earshot.

“Nothing out of sorts.” Enjolras says, keeping his eyes away from his best friend and firmly fixed on the painting in front of him. Combeferre merely raises an eyebrow in disdain.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Our conversation was not that different to those we have during the alliance meetings.” Enjolras replies, and he doesn’t need to look to know that Combeferre is sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose.

“So, by that you mean you bickered with each other until it got too personal, and one of you got fed up and walked away.” Combeferre states with a heavy exhale. “And this time, it was Grantaire. Did you actually tell him why you were here, or did that slip your mind?”

“He seemed surprised that I’d bothered to come.” Enjolras replies, finally looking at Combeferre. He’s regarding him with his fairly typical look of abject scorn. “But I’m not sure why.”

“You’ve never shown any interest in his work whatsoever. Perhaps that has something to do with it.”

“I mean, I don’t even understand why he came.” Grantaire huffs as he takes a long drag from his cigarette. Feuilly eyes him warily. He’s moved to lean against the iron railings beside the exit stairs, and one of his shirt sleeves is rolled up to his elbow. Bahorel has hold of his wrist, a cigarette loose between his lips, as he traces the thin, ornate lettering inked into Feuilly’s forearm with his fingers.

“I don’t know what to tell you.” Feuilly shrugs with one shoulder, flicking the ash from his cigarette with his free hand so as not to dislodge Bahorel. “Mostly because I don’t really know why he came. He always makes a point of saying he hates things like this. Usually loudly.”

Bahorel chuckles beside him.

“Sounds like Enjolras.” He drinks the last of the beer in the can in his hand before crushing it between a few fingers. “I bet it was Courfeyrac’s idea, though. I know he wanted to come and support Jehan, but I’ll bet he didn’t want to come alone. Which explains why Combeferre is here, too.”

“But that doesn’t explain why he was so fixated by my _stupid_ work.” Grantaire huffs, leaning back against the wall. He puffs angrily at his cigarette, kicking at the paving stones under his feet.

“Why wouldn’t he be?” Feuilly asks, not looking at him and instead turning to focus on Bahorel. “You’re a good artist, R.”

“But he doesn’t _like_ me.” Grantaire reasons with a weak sigh. He stubs out his cigarette on the wall and lets it drop to the floor. “I mean, who would? I’m just a loudmouthed _child_ with more vices than he has friends.”

“No, you’re not.” Bahorel laughs dryly. He turns away from Feuilly to fix Grantaire with an incredulous look, but keeps his fingers on his arm. “You can dance, you can sing and play piano, and you throw a mean punch when you want to. Or have you forgotten the time you broke my nose when we were in Year Ten?”

“What? Why is this the first I’m hearing of that?” Feuilly snickers.

“I pissed him off once during PE, and he twatted me one when the teacher wasn’t looking. I blamed it on Montparnasse. We’re well over it now, though, no harm done.” Bahorel barks out a laugh and smiles lopsidedly. “But that’s not the point.”

“The look on your face when I hit you was priceless, though.” Grantaire’s lips quirk up slightly, and Bahorel grins, because he might not be okay yet, but at least he doesn’t look like he’s liable to throw himself into traffic anymore.

“We all love you, ‘Taire, you know that.” He moves over and wraps a heavy arm around Grantaire’s shoulders, squeezing softly. Grantaire wheezes as Bahorel squashes him a little too hard, even if he doesn’t mean to, and the older boys both laugh. Grantaire coughs and glowers at them both.

“Yeah, yeah.” He rolls his eyes and exhales heavily. Feuilly looks him up and down, like he can tell he’s lying. “Look, if Éponine comes looking for me, you haven’t seen me, alright? I’m supposed to be walking home with her and I’m just –I’m just not in the right mood to deal with her questions and her pity.”

“Okay.” Feuilly nods and reaches over to squeeze Grantaire’s shoulder. “We’re probably just going to stay out here, though. Not like anyone’s going to ask me anything about my work, is it?”

He laughs wryly and good-naturedly.

“Thanks.” Grantaire smiles weakly. “We’ll do those artist studies tomorrow, yeah?”

Feuilly nods and gives him a brief wave as he heads back inside. Bahorel shouts a loud goodbye and turns back to join Feuilly, who has resumed leaning on the railings and is gazing blankly out over the courtyard.

“What does it say again?” Bahorel asks, looking sideways at him as the wind blows his hair in his eyes.

“What?”

“Your tattoo. What does it say?”

“I’ve told you at least ten times, shit-for-brains.” Feuilly barks, elbowing him in the ribs. “It’s in Polish.”

“No shit, Sherlock. I’d noticed that.” Bahorel pretends to glower, but starts laughing despite himself and elbows him back. “I meant what does it mean?”

“It’s from a poem. Not that you’d understand poetry with that tiny rugby player brain of yours.” Feuilly knocks their knees together hard.

“Piss off.” Bahorel says with a smirk, shoving him sideways. “I _so_ understand poetry. Try me.”

“Yeah, alright.” Feuilly replies sarcastically, kicking him in the back of his knee. “For the eleventh time -and yes, I’m counting-”

“Pedantic little shit, aren’t you?” Bahorel interrupts playfully.

“-it means ‘ _We won’t forsake the land we came from; we are the Polish nation, the Polish people_.’ It’s paraphrased.”

“...And people wonder why you never anglicized your first name. Clearly they don’t know how friggin’ patriotic you are.”

“I couldn’t even if I wanted to -which I don’t- so shut up.” Feuilly stumbles sideways as Bahorel slams their shoulders together hard. “Czesław has no English-language equivalent. I’ve told you that before.”

“Just because your name looks like someone sat on their keyboard doesn’t mean you can get all grouchy with me.” Bahorel retorts with a laugh before Feuilly gives up and just tackles him.

Grantaire hears the ebbs of their conversation as he re-enters the hall, keeping his eyes open for Éponine as he moves. He spots Jehan with Courfeyrac, the smaller boy’s floral jeans and floating white blouse (that Grantaire is almost certain he saw Cosette wearing last week) clearly visible even from the other side of the room, as Courfeyrac holds tight onto his hand and to his every word. Cosette and Marius are nearby, examining some of Éponine’s wire sculptures of birds. When the girl spots him, she comes over to him, practically skipping and with Marius following behind her, looking every inch like he’s a little, lost, desperately infatuated puppy.

“Grantaire!” Cosette greets him with her wide, typically angelic smile. “Éponine was looking for you. She said she had to leave to go and see to Gavroche. The childminder called and apparently she couldn’t deal with him, so Combeferre gave her a ride home. She said she’d text you or come over when you got home.”

“Oh, okay.” Grantaire relaxes a little, knowing that he won’t have to endure an interrogation-come-lecture about what was wrong and how Enjolras can be ‘ _such a self-righteous little fuckwit when he wants to be_ ’ for another few hours yet. “Combeferre, though? I didn’t think they were friends.”

“I don’t know if you’d say they’re friends.” Enjolras’s voice rises over Grantaire’s shoulder, and he winces inwardly. “All I’ll say on the matter is that Combeferre turns an interesting shade of pink when someone so much as mentions her name.”

“How nice that must be for him.” Grantaire deadpans, turning on his heel and staring at Enjolras. The blonde boy’s hair looks a little ruffled, like he’s been running his hands through it. Cosette widens her eyes at Enjolras over Grantaire’s shoulder, and the older boy nods, signalling that she should leave. She closes her eyes and nods, obliging quickly and taking Marius with her.

“Now, if you don’t mind me, I’ll be leaving.” Grantaire says, marching forward and past Enjolras, who watches dumbly for a few moments until he leans out and grabs the other boy’s wrist. Grantaire turns and raises an eyebrow at him, pulling away from him until Enjolras releases the sleeve of his suit jacket.

“Wait.”

Grantaire’s eyebrows practically disappear into his hairline as he regards Enjolras with a disbelieving look.

“Why should I?” He folds his arms protectively over his chest and frowns. Enjolras coughs.

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“If it’s to tell me that art is a futureless profession and that I should focus on the one academic subject I actually take, then save it. I’ve heard it enough times.” He turns again but Enjolras speaks before he has chance to move.

“I just wanted to tell you that your work is very good, actually.” Enjolras admits boldly, his eyes steely as Grantaire turns to stare at him. “And I was wondering if you’d consider creating some promotional pieces for the group?”

“Excuse me?” Grantaire asks in disbelief, allowing himself to take a tiny step towards him.

“Nothing huge, of course, just something we can turn into posters to put up around the area, and on the signs we take to events, things like that.” Enjolras continues brusquely, ignoring Grantaire’s blank expression. “And you’d have to understand that we can’t pay you –we don’t get any funding from the school, you see- but I’m sure something can be arranged.”

“Fine.” Grantaire relents. “I hope you know it’ll take me quite some time. Painting is a slow medium, and I work at a pace so slow that Éponine often revels in telling me that snails paint faster. And, for what it’s worth, the finished piece probably won’t be all that impressive.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” Enjolras replies, staring at Grantaire resolutely. Grantaire swallows hard, but meets his eyes firmly and assuredly.

“I’m sure you will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the poem that Feuilly's tattoo comes from is [Rota](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rota_\(poem\)), a Polish epic poem.  
> to my knowledge (and to that of the two Polish guys I know) Czeslaw has no 'true/proper' anglicized form, but some people go for Chester if they choose to change their name when they move to an english-speaking country.
> 
> (also in other news, help I'm in love with patriotic!Polish!Feuilly and I don't know what to do)
> 
> (also, appearance wise, I see this lot as looking like their movie!selves, except Jehan sort of looks like Stav Strashko with ginger hair in my head, and Musichetta is basically Isabelle Fuhrman with brown hair. but feel free to think of them however you want u_u)


End file.
